Dead End

2—Nate

I guess it was comical. I mean all the street fights I was in because I thought my name was Laspiza and somebody would crack smart about Italians. It was only when I finished high school, was going into the Army, that I really learned I wasn't Nate Laspiza's son. I'd had kind of a hint several years before that he wasn't my real father. But when I went into the service there was the little matter of a birth certificate, and then I found out I wasn't even his adopted son.

Both times hit me pretty hard, but on the last one I nearly blew my deal. To this day I don't know how Mom worked it in grade school, but I was always registered as Bucklin Laspiza, which was certainly a fancy handle. But I was damn proud of it. You see how it was. Mom wasn't much of anything around the house. That is, she was just a mama, kind of sloppy and plain-looking, who did the cooking and washing, nibbled on a bottle in secret, or split a few bottles of beer listening to the radio at nights with Nate. I don't want to give you the wrong impression—Daisy was a good mother to me, the best. When I say she hit the bottle, I don't mean she was a lush, but I knew she was taking a secret nip now and then; and looking back on anything, I suppose it's always the bad things that stand out.

Daisy was good and considerate, and I loved her, but I was crazy about Nate, that sonofabitch. In a way, he was about the greatest father a kid could have. I haven't seen him now in years, never hear from him except for the usual Christmas or birthday cards. But in those days, when I was about ten, Nate was my hero—different from the other men in our neighborhood. In this semi-tenement block, most of the men lived in overalls, but Nate was a receptionist for a big oil company downtown and he always wore a pressed suit. He was like Doc, always a snappy dresser, shaving a second time in the evening, even if he was only going to the movies. Why, he wore gloves and sometimes even spats.

He wasn't a big man, never weighed over a hundred and fifty, but Nate was wiry and compactly built. He had a mild sort of face, not handsome but with an expression as if he found the world an amusing sort of place, a kind of secret joke of his own. It was a joy to watch Nate walking down the street among the grubby-looking men and drunks—the snap to his step. You know, I never saw Nate staggering drunk: Like everything else he did, he knew how to drink. Along about five thirty every afternoon I'd watch for him, his standout neatness, the smile on his lean face, his gloves. When I was eleven I used to sleep with Nate's pigskin gloves under my pillow whenever I could.

There was a big slob of a coal-truck driver who moved into one of the houses with his snot-nosed kids. He usually had a half a load on, was all covered with coal dust, and on paydays might pass out on the tenement steps. He had a bellowing voice, was over six feet tall and lardy—had to weigh about two hundred and fifty. He had a rep as a saloon brawler and looked it. One afternoon his oldest kid tried to say a ball I had was his. I wasn't lying or anything when I insisted it was mine.

You see, Nate paid a lot of attention to me. Most guys on the block had so many kids they treated them all as if they were pests. We were the only family with a single child and both Daisy and Nate gave me a lot of time. Especially Nate. He used to take me fishing and hunting, go to the beach with me, show me how to play ball, how to box, and on my tenth birthday he gave me a set of weights and we would work out together a few nights a week. What I'm trying to say is, with Nate's tutoring I was handy with my mitts, maybe even a bit of a bully, so I had to give this kid a bloody nose to convince him about the ball. It was late in the afternoon, and I'd forgotten about the whole damn thing, when this big slob, the kid's old man, came lumbering up to me. He was breathing whisky and suddenly deciding to play the Big Daddy. He said, “Give back that ball, you stealing little wop.”

“No sir. It's my ball. I'm sure because I got it cheap—there's a bump in the rubber and it bounces cockeyed.”

“Don't give me no Eye-tie lip, just the ball.”

“No, sir. That bump—that's how I'm positive it's mine,” I said, scared stiff but standing up to him. As Nate used to tell me, If you think you're right, never back down, Bucky. A beating isn't the worst thing in the world.

So he made a grab for me with one dirty mitt and I ducked under his arm, punched him as hard as I could in his big belly. I didn't hurt him but some of the other men began to snicker. He roared, “Now I'm going to wack your guinea ass, and wack it bare!”

I suppose I was too scared to run. I kept side-stepping his rushes, hitting his stomach—too dumb to smack him below the belt. Some of the women were telling him to stop it, and I remember Mom screaming out of the window to leave me alone. She had a bitch of a temper when she cut loose—even Nate respected it—and I'm sure if she had been able to dress and get down the five flights in time, she would have tore into this lump.

The exercise was sobering him up and when he finally caught me, he ripped my shirt down the back, tore my pants, pulling them down. Maybe he was a queer—he was licking his lips, and I felt his spit on my bare can before he walloped me. That spit hurt worse than the actual lick. Then Nate was pushing through the ring of people. He said in a mild voice, “Get your dirty hands off my kid!” Yeah, he said my kid.

The big jerk dropped me. He stood there with his hands down, roaring, “Look what we have here, the Eye-tie dude!”

Rolling out of the way as I pulled up my pants, I watched Nate step in and belt the guy. It was a hard punch and Nate neatly turned his gloved hand as it landed cutting the eyebrow.

His face bloody, this giant rushed at Nate. His idea of fighting was to come in bellowing and cursing, swinging like a gate. If he'd ever got to Nate he would have crippled him. But Nate knew what he was doing, dancing in and out like a cutie, those tan gloves slicing the big face. Why, Nate's pearl-gray Homburg never even came off! And in a matter of seconds he had the lump's eyes puffed shut, blood streaming from his nose and flabby mouth. Then Nate started working on the heaving belly, and after another minute the big slob was sitting on the street, puffing and actually crying with shame. Nate said, “If you ever lay a hand on my kid again, I'll give you the full treatment. Come, Bucky. Daisy has supper waiting.” And Nate without a mark on him, hardly breathing deeply.

I was one proud and happy kid as we walked through the crowd. And those gloves were so bloodstained Nate could only use them for fishing. Daisy didn't want me to sleep with them, but Nate said it was okay. When I grew bigger I wore them until they fell apart.

Nate was so many things. Except for going to work, most of the people never left our block. But Nate and I went every place. He was a great cook and on picnics he would build a fire and broil the fish we'd caught. Or split hot dogs and stuff cheese and bacon and all kinds of spices in them. Or roast whole ears of corn, husks and all. Often Daisy went with us but usually she was too tired. Even now I can recall the time Nate killed a rabbit on the run with a stone, roasted it on a spit—man, what a meal that was! I'm not lying about that, Nate was a hell of a pitcher. He once played semi-pro ball. Sometimes he'd pitch for a local sand-lot team and everybody would ask him why he'd never made the major leagues. Nate knew everything about the game, would often take me to a ball game and practically call every play before it was made. He told me not to tell Daisy about going to ball games, it made her sick. I didn't understand about that until I left home.

Nate was all-around. Whenever one of those professional pool players, one of those masked marvels sent around by the pool-table outfits, played at the corner pool hall, they would ask Nate to take him on. Of course Nate never won but it was always a close game. And when his office had their yearly outing, Nate would take me and Mom, and we'd watch him win the sack race, or even the hundred-yard dash against younger fellows.

The first I knew Nate wasn't my real dad was when I was thirteen and he went away for a week end to attend his mother's funeral. I knew Daisy's folks had died long ago, although I'd never seen them. She had a sister I saw once when I was a kid. Nor had I met any of Pop's people, and when he went away I kept asking Daisy why I had never seen or heard of this grandfather. She told me it was because they lived way out west. Daisy really hit the bottle that week end. I had to put her to bed. When Nate returned Sunday night they had an argument in their bedroom. On account of Mom being crocked I'd been sleeping lightly, so I awoke to hear her say, “Hon, he's getting big now, and asking questions. Why don't you adopt him?”

“No. Let's not go into that.”

“But I know you love Bucky. Why put him through this? He isn't to blame.”

“Daisy, I've had a rough week end. You look like you've had one, too. Let's not talk about it. I'm providing for him, doing everything I promised.”

“But why can't you go all the way?”

He didn't answer and then I heard her sobbing and Nate said, “Come on now, Daisy, dear. You know I've done the right thing. Please don't cry.”

I tossed on my day bed in the living room for the rest of the night, was sick in school the next day thinking about it. That night, when we were listening to the radio and Daisy was in the kitchen finishing the dishes, I asked him right out. “Nate, are you my real dad?”

I was a little hysterical. He glanced toward the kitchen, whispered, “Bucky, do you know what a real father is?”

“Well, he's... a father.”

“A father is one who feeds his boy, dresses him, takes him out, cares for him. I dress you better than any other kid in the block, take you more places, don't I?”

“You bet. Then you are my real father?”

“Keep your voice down. I just answered that, didn't I, Son?”

“Then what was Mom crying about last night?”

He grinned and poked me on the arm. “You know women; sometimes they get high strung. Tell you what. Tomorrow is Friday. If Daisy don't want to go to the movies, I'll take you bowling. It's a nice sport and you've never tried it. And you forget Mama's crying—talking about it will only make her nervous. You know how she gets at times. Okay?”

I thought he meant she was unwell. He took me bowling on Friday and won a carton of cigarettes for making high score of the week.

When I was just turning eighteen and in my last term of high school, Daisy began to have sick spells, keep to her bed a lot. She was always skin and bones, although I was surprised when I once came upon a snap of her as a young girl—she had a slim but solid figure. I came home one afternoon from football practice—I was always a second-string tackle—to find her on the kitchen floor. I set up such a hollering the neighbors came running and soon an ambulance doc. He said Daisy was dead—as if I didn't know—that her heart had given out. Nate took it bad, crying all night and staring at the wall for a few days. Of course, I felt bad at losing Mom, but it really didn't change my life much. After the funeral things went on as before, except I did the shopping after school and Nate cooked.

I was almost as big then as I am now, weighed in at a hundred and seventy-four pounds, and was trying to be an amateur boxer. Nate was my manager, trainer, and second, and after Daisy's death we worked hard at it. Three nights a week I'd train at a gym the pros used during the day. I had a few fights, winning them all. They weren't easy fights and I didn't see any future in throwing leather. But it made it easier for us to forget Daisy, gave both of us a charge, me in there fighting, Nate leaning on the ring apron, shouting advice. Nate and I were closer than any father and son.

When I graduated school a few months after the funeral, Nate gave me a swell watch, a wrist watch with the picture of a pug, the hands of the clock being his arms. I still have it. The night of my graduation he took me out for some real Japanese food and a couple of belts of rye, telling me how sad it was Daisy didn't see me get my diploma, how I must go to college, maybe even get an athletic scholarship. When we returned to the flat there was a check for three hundred and fifty dollars in the mail for Bucklin Penn. There was one for Nate too, for the same amount. He said, “From your dear mother's policy.”

Never having had that much money before, I was too delighted to think straight for a moment. Then I asked, “But what's with this Bucklin Penn tag?”

Nate was unrolling my diploma, which he was going to have framed the first thing in the morning. I was astonished to see the same name on the diploma—Bucklin Penn. I asked, “What is this, Dad? Why isn't Laspiza printed there?”

Nate had the same look in his eyes as when he was getting ready to make a tough pool shot, or pitch his fast ball. “Because your name is Penn, Bucky.”

“That was Mom's maiden name but my name is Laspiza.”

“No it isn't,” he said quietly. “That's why I arranged for your correct name on your diploma. Son, it's time you knew I'm not your actual father.”

“Well, who is?” I asked, my voice a croak. I was all mixed up; him telling me that and calling me son at the same time.

“I don't know. Daisy would never tell me. Truth is, I never asked.”

Now, Nate had a good sense of humor, sometimes was given to mild practical jokes. Like once I'd saved up for a model plane they were advertising on a corn-flakes box. I gave Nate the letter with the money to mail on his way to the office. That night he came home with the plane-kit box, addressed to me, stamped and everything, said mail service was sure fast these days. It took me a few days to realize he had bought a kit in a store, had his company's mail room fix it up.

Feeling like I'd stopped a gut wallop, I asked, “Nate, what kind of a gag is all this?”

“How I wish it was a gag, Bucky. This is going to be rough, for both of us, but I have to tell you something I wanted to say long ago, but Daisy wouldn't let me. I kept telling her it was a mistake not to tell you....”

“Tell me what?”

“You're almost a man now, Bucky. You can understand this. Daisy and I grew up together in a small town not far from Gary. We were sweethearts from the day we first saw each other. Her folks weren't too keen about having me in the family because I was Italian. Well, her parents were killed in an auto accident when Daisy was fifteen, and she came to live with us. We were to be married when she was eighteen. After about a year or so, she began working as a waitress in a combination bar and restaurant. My people were very strait-laced, you understand. They didn't want her working. But Daisy liked being independent, and she wasn't working nights—when the bar might get rough—only during the afternoons. I don't have to tell you about sex, Bucky; we went over that a few years ago. What I'm trying to say is, I never touched Daisy, although we both wanted it. You see, we agreed we would wait.”

He stopped talking for a moment, and when he continued his voice was shaking like a ham actor's. “Daisy was going to be seventeen on August twenty-fifth. I was nineteen and that summer I got an offer to play semipro ball up in Canada. It looked like my big chance. In July—July eighth in fact; 111 never forget that date—my father wrote that I should consider Daisy dead—they had kicked her out of the house. I left the team and rushed home. She was a month pregnant with you. Some louse had fed her a few drinks, raped her. She had been ashamed to even go to the police. We were married that same day, and came east. I promised her I would raise you like my own son. Bucky, you know I've kept my word. I intend to help you through college, keep on being your best friend and—”

“Best friend—you are my father!” I was talking in a daze.

“No, I'm not. A fact is a fact.”

“But you've been a father to me for almost eighteen years. Why didn't you... don't you... at least adopt me?”

“I can't do that, kid.”

“Why?”

“Well—I just can't. You're better off with a name like Perm. A good American name that—”

“Nate, Nate, don't bull me! Why can't you give me your name?”

“What's in a name?” he asked, then turned away and added—almost painfully, “Bucky, don't ask me why.”

I spun him around. “But I'm asking!”

“Look... I never told you this, of course, but—I'm wanted by the police.”

“Since when? What for?”

“I don't want to talk about it. But it's true.”

“I don't believe it. Why, you're so honest you wouldn't keep the three bucks in that purse you once found! What—”

Nate was suddenly full of cheer. “Still time to make a late show downtown, kid. Come on. What difference does it make if you're called Smith, Brown, or anything else? A handle is merely a label and I've raised you to be a fine young fellow. We'll take in a show and forget it.”

“Sure, just forget a trifle like finding out I'm a bastard!” I screamed, running out of the apartment.

I had the check with me and managed to cash it. Then I did a real dumb thing: I got crocked in the neighborhood. Being a pug and a football player, I was sort of a big deal around the block, and plenty of the better-looking babes kept asking me to take them out. Elma wasn't one of them. She was a big plump girl of about eighteen and her claim to fame was her constant use of a four-letter word. Okay, it may sound jerky now, but then it was kicks to hear a girl talk like that. Guys took Elma out to hear her dirty jokes, and when she got mad Elma would repeat that four-letter word over and over, so the fellows would try to get her boiling. That wasn't so simple, for Elma was very easygoing. Don't get me wrong; I knew she never went all the way. But several times she let me run my hands over her. Elma never made any bones about it: She went for me in a big way. All I remember about that drunken night was me telling everybody my name wasn't Laspiza, like a fool, and Elma hanging on to me, saying, “Penn is a nice name, Bucky. Why, maybe you're descended from the famous William Penn. Jeez, you got an arm like a rock. Make a muscle for me, Bucky.”

Nate finally found me around two in the morning, took me home. For the first time in his life he took off a few days from his job, stayed with me. The crazy thing is I might have got over the shock if I hadn't stupidly broadcast the fact I was a bastard. It was a bit of choice gossip. I knew guys were snickering behind my back, and the girls avoided me. But Elma was with me as much as possible.

It got so I couldn't stand the damn block and one day I went off and enlisted in the Army. This was about a year before Korea. Nate was heartbroken—which gave me a kind of dumb satisfaction. He told me, “You've made a bad mistake, Bucky. You should have gone to college. A man isn't anything today without a college degree. If I'd gone to college do you think I'd have ended behind a reception desk, grinning like a dressmakers' dummy? I been with the company for over fifteen years and every time there was an opening, a chance, they passed me by for a college kid.”

“So what? I would have been drafted in a few months anyway.”

“I suppose so. Take care of yourself in the Army, come out with a clean record. This might work out for the best, maybe you can still go to college, on the G. I. Bill when you get out. It will be good for you to get away—this Elma isn't for you, Bucky. She's older and a—”

“Nate, you were about twenty-seven when World War II was going. I guess having me around kept you 4F.”

“A busted eardrum kept me out.”

“I bet you told them I was your real son then. I bet!” I said, leaving the house for a last date with Elma.

I breezed through basic in a southern infantry camp. Nate wrote me regularly, sent me shaving kits and all the dopey things you send a soldier, but I never answered him. Whenever I got a leave I spent it drinking and fighting bootleg pro bouts in a nearby big city. I was stationed in Texas when Korea broke and we were sure to be sent over. I got a two-week leave and a plane ride back home. I really didn't go “home,” I took a room downtown. The first thing I did was insist upon Elma spending the night with me. The deal with me was, I couldn't think of anything but Nate not being my old man. I guess it became an obsession with me. I thought about it all the time, in camp, in the ring, even sleeping with Elma. The thought kept rattling around in my head. When I could look at it calmly, I knew he had done the right thing by Daisy. Most guys wouldn't have. What it must have meant to Nate to give up pro ball, his big chance. And to leave his family. But what kept eating at me was, why hadn't he adopted me? It didn't make sense. I'd think back to all he'd done for me, all the attention and care, and yet he wouldn't give me his name. Why?

I was liquored up most of the time, not much of a feat as I'm hardly a drinker; a few shots does it far me. When I had three days left of my leave, I went up to the apartment late one afternoon, knowing Nate would be home from work by then.

When I opened the door he was making supper, wearing an old smoking jacket. Nate never slopped around the house in his undershirt. He said, “Hello, Bucky. I heard you were in town. Looks like you've put on muscle. Soldiering must agree with you.”

“I can take it or leave it. I... uh... meant to come by sooner but I had a few stops.”

“I can smell them. Want supper?”

“No.” I staggered a bit trying to make the table. “I want something else, Nate.”

“Broke? I can let you have—”

“I want you to call me Bucky Laspiza. I want to hear you say it right now!” I said, the anger building up in me so strong the words came blurting out.

Nate gave me a “fatherly” smile. “Come on, now, Bucky, you're crocked. Why do you let that worry you so? You know the old line about what's in a name? I think—”

“Nate, stop stalling. You're going to call me Bucky Laspiza, or I'm going to make you. I been thinking about it for weeks now. You've called me 'Son,' and 'my kid,' and 'Bucky,' but I can't ever remember you calling me Bucky Laspiza!”

“Aren't you being silly?”

“Nothing silly about it to me!”

“Bucky, suppose I did say what you want—what difference would it make?” he asked, coming around the kitchen table to face me. I'd worked out with him enough to tell from the way he had his legs apart that he was set to hit me. I wanted him to. I guess what I'd really been thinking in the back of my noggin all these months was that I hated Nate so damn much I wanted to kill him.

“Don't soft-sell me, Nate. It will make a lot of difference to me. Just call me Bucky Laspiza, Nate.”

“Want me to call you mister, too?” he said, wetting his lips nervously.

“The hell with mister. Call me by my name!”

“Certainly. Hello, Bucklin Penn.”

“Goddamn you, Nate, you're going to call me Laspiza!”

“I can't. It isn't your name.”

I started for him. He was good; even though I expected the punch, his right came so fast I couldn't block it. It was a hell of a wallop, sent me reeling-crashing against the wall, almost floored me. I knew then Nate felt the same way: All his resentment against me was in that crack on the chin.

My mouth was bleeding, my head ringing. Nate was so eager he goofed—he came at me. I got my arms around him, was too strong for him, not to mention the forty pounds of young muscle I had on him. I wrestled him to the floor, smothering his blows with my body. I sat on his gut, slugging him with both hands. I was so nuts I think I would have killed him if he hadn't gone limp and whispered, “Don't, Bucky. This... is... crazy stuff.”

“Call me Bucky Laspiza!” I gasped.

“Bucky L-Laspiza,” he said, turning his head away from me, the words coming out a tormented moan.

There was a bruise on his cheek; a trickle of blood ran out of one ear. I got off him and sat on the floor, feeling my numb chin. I was suddenly very sober and scared—I had damn near killed him. I stroked his thin hair and Nate began to cry. I kissed him on the forehead, muttered, “Oh, Dad, Dad! What's happening to us? You're right, this is crazy. Why can't you adopt me, give me your name?”

“Don't talk about that,” he said, hugging me with one hand, but still not looking at me. “I told you about the police... looking for me.”

“All this time? For what?”

“Murder. I... I... killed your father.”

I pulled away from him. “Stop snowing me, Nate. That's a lie.”

“No it isn't.” He was whispering again.

“I thought about it in camp—you're all I thought about. You've always told me how the oil company has such a careful check on their employees. All that security stuff. If you were wanted by the cops, they would have had you long ago.”

“They—the police—they... don't know I killed him.”

“Then there isn't any reason why you can't adopt me.”

He didn't answer. For several minutes neither of us spoke. Nate's eyes were shut and his face was so white I thought he had passed out. I stood up. Pulling Nate to his feet, I led him to a kitchen chair. For the first time Nate didn't look dapper, merely old. He leaned on the table, feeling of his face, staring at the blood that came off on his hands. I wet a dish towel with cold water and tossed it on the table. Nate held it to his face for a long while.

“Nate, that stuff about killing; it's a lie, isn't it?”

“Yeah. But I wanted to kill him. I used to dream how I had killed him—whoever he was. I'd dream of ways of slow... I suppose that's why Daisy never would tell me.”

“Dad, I'm sorry I hit you.”

He took the towel from his puffed face, looked at me. “I could cut off my hand for punching you, Bucky.”

“Nate, listen: I still want you to adopt me.”

“Son, in time you'll forget about it.”

“Can't you understand that I wouldn't want any other man for a father?”

“I've always been your father, Bucky.”

“Damn it, Nate, make it legal!”

He shook his head and groaned with pain. Then he said, “I just can't do it. Sometimes I wanted to but... Bucky, I've always been an also-ran—in everything I did. I never made the big leagues or had a good job. Well, a man can't be a complete blank. What I'm trying to say is that even a bad thing can still be the biggest deal in your life. That's the real reason why I never adopted you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You see, if I had adopted you, or put my name down when you were born—it was that simple—why, in time it would have been forgotten. I would have forgotten it! Son, you can't ask a man to forgive and forget the biggest thing in his life.”

“What?”

“No matter if I was second best in everything else—in that I stuck to my guns.”

“You mean you wanted to hold it over Daisy all her life. Is that it?”

“No. I loved Daisy. You should know that.”

“Bull! You did the 'right thing' and wanted to make damn sure she'd never forget it—you wanted to punish her! What did it do, keep you on that righteous kick all your life?”

“That's not so. Daisy is dead and I'm still young enough to—I can't even think of marrying again.”

“My God, Nate, I used to think of you as a man, but you're sick, crawling with self-pity!”

“What if I am?” he asked loudly, staring up at me. 'You're only a kid and can't understand what I've been trying to tell you. When a man has nothing else, even self-pity can be the most important thing in his life. It's been something I've clung to all these years. I can't give it up now.”

“But clinging to what? Is this why you never had any other... any kids with Daisy? Why you made her your maid... something around the apartment like a dishrag?”

“That's an unfair lie. We tried to have children. And I always treated Daisy well, better than any—”

“I know. You did the 'right thing,' and you're stuck with it—in your own crazy mind,” I said, picking up my garrison cap, straightening my jacket and shirt. Heading for the door, I called back, “Good-by, Nate. I wish to God I'd never come back, never seen you like this.”

“Bucky!” It was a wail that made me stop at the doorway.

Fumbling for words, Nate said, “Good-by, Son. I've been thinking of moving. I may be transferred to our L.A. office. I'll send you my address.”

“Don't bother.” I started down the stairs.

“Son! Wait.”

“I'm waiting.”

“Bucky if... if it means so much to you... After all, you're the only thing real I have left in life. Well, I'm willing to give you my name.”

“Thanks, Nate.”

“Tomorrow I'll see a lawyer and start—”

“Don't bother. When I said thanks I meant thanks for making it so it doesn't matter a damn to me now if I have your name or not. Good-by!” I rushed down the stairs.

I rang Elma's bell. When she came out I told her, “Let's get back to the hotel.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “I have to be careful, Bucky. You know my old man and Mama gave me hell about staying—”

“Tell her we're getting married in the morning.”

“Bucky! You kidding?”

“Aw, I have this G.I. insurance, can get an allotment. You've been good to me—why shouldn't you get it?”

Over a fat kiss, Elma said, “You don't know how good 111 be to you from now on! Let's go, lover.”

“Don't you want to tell your folks?”

Elma uttered her favorite word, then added, “We're engaged, aren't we? My old man would think we're lying and—I'll tell Ma later, when I show her the ring.”